Monday, March 25, 2013

Several weeks ago, a woman with cold hands squeezed my naked
sweater potatoes with a look of intense concentration.

I paid her for it.

At least, my insurance company did.

“I know you’re only 38,” my doctor said as she palpated my fun bags, “but since you have
some family history of breast cancer, now would be a good time for you to
schedule a baseline mammogram.”

Not eager to argue with someone gripping one of my meatloaves, I left my annual exam and phoned the radiology clinic. The scheduler asked so many questions about my dairy pillows, she knew them better than I did by the time she booked my appointment.

The night before my mammogram, I considered treating my lady balls to a special dinner or buying them some expensive lotion.
Everything I’d heard about mammograms indicated my chesticles were in for an
unpleasant experience, and I felt I owed them something nice.

My gentleman
friend gamely offered to assist, adding that he'd also be happy to conduct the entire
mammogram himself.

"You're such a helpful, selfless individual," I said.

"I do my part," he agreed.

The next morning, I walked into the clinic and spotted this
sign over the front desk:

“I’m supposed to be here for a mammogram,” I told the
receptionist. “But that PET thing sounds like more fun. Do I get to pick who pets
me?”

She gave me a nervous smile and a bunch of paperwork to fill
out. I sat there in the waiting room giving my pointer sisters a pep talk until
a cute guy came out in blue scrubs and called my name. I followed him down the hall
where he pointed me to a small dressing room.

“If you’re wearing any lotion or deodorant, you’ll want to
clean it off,” he said.

“You’re not offering sponge baths?” I asked as he handed me
a weird pink wraparound top.

He shook his head and pointed at a bowl of wet-wipes.

I sponged off my own rib balloons and wriggled into the pink
top, unclear why I couldn’t just walk to the mammogram room shirtless and save everyone the
hassle. I had my answer seconds later when I found myself in a second waiting
area accompanied by half-a-dozen other women wearing the same top and matching
uneasy expressions.

“It’s like some kind of weird prison garb,” I said to one
woman who looked up from her magazine as I entered. “Think we get to keep
these shirts?”

“At least they warmed them up,” she said, and I agreed that
was a nice touch.

Seconds later, a technician called my name and led me down
the hall to where this contraption awaited my hush puppies:

“This is your first time?” the technician asked.

“Yes. Does that mean I get extra foreplay?”

She laughed and began a brief lecture on pressure and pain
thresholds. I’m sure her precise wording was much more clinical than this, but
what I heard was, “some women are delicate and sensitive, and some hussies like
things rough, and if you’re one of the latter, you’ll do just fine.”

I’m sure those weren’t her exact words, but I relaxed
anyway.

I relaxed further when I remembered the words of a friend
who used to work in a mammography clinic. “Women with big boobs are usually
easy, so you’ll do great.”

I appreciated the backhanded compliment, and reminded myself
to look at all women with oversized love muffins and think easy from now on.

For the next five minutes, I engaged in a sort of bizarre
dance with the technician calling out the moves. “Take two steps this way. Lift
your arm. Turn to the right. I’m going to move your breast now.”

She maneuvered my beanbags into position, stepping away
every now and then to tighten the vice grip before stepping back to rearrange
my t-shirt meat on the metal plate.

“You’re done,” she announced abruptly.

“Really?” I asked. “That’s it?”

“For some people, mammograms are very painful. For other people—” she
shrugged, leaving me to fill in the blank as, insensitive bitches like you don’t feel a thing.

Which was true, and a great relief, but still.

“Do I at least get a lollypop?” I asked.

“You got squeezed. Isn’t that better?”

“Very true,” I agreed. “It’s an awesome day anytime someone
cops a feel before 9 a.m.”

Three days later—lightning fast, in my opinion—I got a letter in the mail:

While the first line was a relief, it was the second that
caught my eye. I handed the letter to my gentleman friend. “Apparently, my
flesh bulbs aren’t very smart,” I said.

“What?”

“My hood ornaments,” I informed him. “They’re dense.”

“Do they need some special ed?”

All jokes aside, I googled “dense breasts” and was taken
aback by what I read. According to areyoudense.org
(I couldn’t make that up if I wanted to) some women’s flapjacks are made up
mostly of fat, while others are comprised of more connective tissue. It’s
impossible to tell by feel (though you’re welcome to give it a shot) and it’s
not until you stick your paw patties in a mammogram machine that you have any
idea what they’re made of.

The problem is that dense mushmelon tissue is white on a
mammogram, which is the same color cancer appears. In other words, if your bikini biscuits are dense, you won't always spot cancer on a mammogram. Not only that, but cancer
turns up five times more often in women with dense jahoobies than those
with fattier milk fountains. Those of us with dense skin snacks are encouraged
to get regular ultrasounds in addition to mammograms to avoid missing anything
important.

Consider that your public service announcement for the week.
Now go out there and grope your sweet rolls. Or someone else’s. It’s the right
thing to do.

I've had to get mamograms and ultrasounds, since I was 24 (early family history). The first time the tightened that torture contraption untill it readjusted my back. SInce then it's been a piece of cake, at least physically.

Laughing while drinking a beer is dangerous. I have this post to thank for that.

Glad it was not painful for you. With all your comments to staff, you can be guaranteed you have a big sanity questionmark next to your name. :)

Having had breast cancer at age 28 (also a dense breast person then), I believe that the pain of a mammogram is well worth it to learn of cancer before it spreads too much.

I must admit, the one machine I miss from the old days had a giant balloon that pressed down on the breast instead of the vice grips they now use. Unfortunately, that soft balloon did not do enough compression for most women.

Sonograms on the other hand are truly painless. So, if you need the sonogram follow up, you may find it actually fun. :)